Matt Ryan told me to write a poemHe said that it was to be written and turned in by Sunday night –Emailed to his real email And put in an attachmentSingle spaced, all poems are written single spacedHe said it was to be three pages longLet’s be real Matt Ryan I can’t write a three page poemLet alone a poem that’s a few lines longNO USING BLAND LANGUAGE! Poems never use bland languageAlthough it helps to have a built vocabularyI went to a public school in LASo my vocab was never properly builtAnd poems can’t rhyme, rhyming is unoriginal And it’s over rated anywaysThe only rhymes you should use are the internal ones I can’t rhyme internally it’s so hard to find the timeAlso you have to have a good topic for your poemYou can’t write a poem on the Burr-Hamilton duel in 1804Or the difference between the word honor and honourPoems are made of words-words you feelPoems are made to come from your mind and soulA poem is a container for these words When writing a poem you have to find the right shapeIf you don’t find the right shape the words will fall on the floorLike alphabet soup Good poems are usually written by good writersI’m a terrible writer – That’s why I’m taking this classMaybe one day I’ll get better at it

* Briar-Rose Jacobson is a senior political communications major at Concordia University, St Paul. She works for the university newspaper The Sword as the staff photographer and is also a student leader for the Communication Club.

One trims his toe-nailsAnother gathers up the cuttingsPlants them in the patch of groundBehind the shed

Someone now supervisesOrganises a rotaAnd watches outFor an earth moment.

A signpost spouts upThere’s now a field of toe-nailsSturdy enough to be reaped And lifted into storage silos.

Nightmare

It’s the bad dreams that meat-cut throughthe neck of sleep. Again, there’s blood on your hands from your torn and stretched fingers. The branch you are holding is weakening;the roots of the aspen tug out braids of earth,dislodge grass and begin to lift and shift stone.Unable to move, you hang like a weight.

The nightmare now takes you.You say a prayer to anywhere. Once more,you hear a voice but there are no wordsmeant for you. In the real world no oneis listening; in the real world no oneis breathing.

*John Vaughan went to an evening class in 2003 on writing, re-discovered Poetry, took a Creative Writing degree at the former Norwich School of Art and Design 2005-08, and admits that he has caught the 'poetry bug'. Enjoys writing.

Dust gathers in unexpected spaces,in the groove left by the impatient drumming of your fingers,waiting for nothing to happen, again.

Dust gathers in the silence of the open door,never to be filled by your presence,the library that stored your experience,and your learning is shut, the key has been thrown away.

Shadows threaten the reverie,they highlight the difference between now,and that which will never be,between fiction and fact,and the stages of life,in which you will always be present,but only in bittersweet memories.

Your absence,is never more present,than in your empty chair.

* Ben Macnair
was born in 1976 in Nottingham, and now resides in Staffordshire. He
has been writing creatively on and off for the last four or five years.
His poetry has appeared in Purple Patch, Raw Edge and various other print publications and websites.

* Gill McEvoy has two pamphlets to her name: Uncertain Days (2006) and A Sampler (2008) both from HappenStance Press. And her first full collection The Plucking Shed (2010) is available now from Cinnamon Press.

Braided streams of smoky sandDance in time by the water’s edgeHissing as they passDressing my feet.Cascading cliffs yield their stocksWeeping waterfalls of mist and stoneUnveiling the futureWith past designs.

* Conor Ebbs says “I've been in a tryst with words and music since I can remember. It's often a rocky relationship. I hail from Dublin, Ireland.”

The last thing Bruce wanted to do while driving though upstate New York was stop at the highway rest area – but he had to. He brought in a book, locked the door, and sat down.

After a moment, someone came in and sat in the next stall. The new neighbor was wearing huge work boots that must have been about size sixteen, so Bruce named him “Mr. Boots.” After a moment, the man began whispering very softly. Bruce couldn't tell if he was whispering to him or himself or someone else. Bruce couldn't make out any of the words. He wasn't even sure they actually were words.

Then Bruce heard a strange crinkling sound, followed by repeated crunching and more crinkling. He was confused for about half a minute, but then it hit him. Mr. Boots was eating chips while sitting on a public toilet.

Without warning, a chip fell to the floor and skittered a couple inches into Bruce's stall. It was one of those curlicue corn chips that Bruce really liked, salty and satisfying.